every rose has its thorn
by lexiconophilia
Summary: in which sam is harbouring a secret that would change his and dean's lives forever, and he decides to do what he should've done a long time ago


**trigger warnings: incest, anxiety, alcohol mentions, death (past tense), pregnancy (mpreg), low self esteem**

 **rating: T+**

 **content preview: mlm relationship(s), incest, flashback mid-chapter, mpreg, domesticity, seahorse dad lmao**

* * *

Sam has to resist every urge from every nerve in his body to not crumple to the floor of this shitty motel room like a piece of unwanted paper. His hands shake and tremors run up and down his spine, creating the illusion of throwing a toaster into a bathtub. He can feel his knees wobbling and threatening to give out, and the bile in his throat burns just as bad as the truth does his soul.

He stands, hovering above the empty suitcase, wondering if this is the right thing to do. He isn't worried in the slightest about finances or responsibilities, hell he can't even give a fuck about his dad. The only x-factor of this whole ordeal is one man; one sandy blonde haired, candy green eyed, man with the bubbly personality and undying love for his family. Sam can't fathom leaving Dean.

Sure, he's the one who got him into this shit show, but it isn't his fault, not really. Sam's just left to deal with the consequences, that's all. Usually, Dean is the one who guards him from harm like a watchdog, but even he can't help him younger brother now.

Wet, hot tears streamline down his puffy pink cheeks, his eyes stinging from the sudden surge of the salty liquid. He has been crying for hours, on and off, and in the past day and a half it's come down to an episode every few hours or so. He's sick and tired of feeling like the victim, but that's all he can peg himself as: a helpless, lost victim. Hell, he can't even bring himself to walk over to his and Dean's wardrobe to throw his shit into a bag and leave.

His mind is screaming "pussy, pussy, pussy" with every second he spends not packing the suitcase, which is mocking him just as much. His vision is blurred now, and he's sliding down to the floor and giving in to his knees' lack of stability. He's seeing shapes; not stars, but circles. His knowledge of his vertigo from the past suggests that he's about to slip into an episode, and he's not about to give on to that "easy way out."

The very next second brings absolute mania to the table. Sam leaps up and storms angrily to the door, resisting every fibre of his being telling him to hurl his fist through the mouldy wood, and shuts it rather loudly, but not noisily enough to cause a scene. The last thing he needs is angry hotel guests making him feel worse than he already does. He then heads to the wardrobe, still livid, and begins to furiously shovel every item of clothing that'll fit into his suitcase (and, to be honest, some of Dean's clothes as well). He doesn't even bother folding—just maniac-like tossing of fabric across the room, and then he shoves his bathroom toiletries into it as well. He has to throw himself onto the overstuffed bag in order to zip it, and even then there's an arm sleeve of a flannel sticking out of the side.

This is approximately the moment when he looses his shit. His angry demeanour fades into that of a scared, young boy facing one of his worst nightmares, one that he didn't even know would happen until very recently. He collapses onto the floor, his face burning hot red with agony of the heart and utter shame as he sobs. He cries for his past, the one where he was mostly carefree and a dreamer thanks to Dean, and for his future, one which has been undoubtedly spoiled because of this one secret.

Then, he remembers: Dean.

He's the real reason he's packing to leave. He got himself into this mess, but Dean would be the one to rub it in his face. He has never antagonised his brother like this, but there's a first for everything. He pulls himself up off the stained motel room floor and flings open his suitcase once again. The clothes hastily shovelled into the canvas bag find their way onto the bed in a heaping pile of the ruins of Sam's future, and he sighs.

"There is no way I'm playing the victim card," he thinks. "Not again."

He inhaled through messy hot tears and begins folding shirts, pants, and other clothes along with his dignity and packing them away. Shirts on one side and pants on the other: the black and white world he longs to live in. He's still crying and heaving his chest, a hand digging into his pectorals as he rides out another panic attack.

Sam is so fixated on trying not to vomit while folding the rest of his clothes (about half of the pile being packed already) that he doesn't notice when the familiar engine of the impala revs into the lot and then cuts, allowing two voices to be heard in all clarity through the thin motel room walls. An obviously drunk John sputters sarcastic remarks and lets meek, little Dean, who's following his father like a small child desperate to earn attention and praise, know about every mistake he made on their hunt. If they never got the euphoric feeling of being praised as children, they sure as hell ain't going to get it now.

Dean leads their father to the motel room three doors down and hands him the key, and as a response Sam only hears a grunt of dissatisfaction when he opens the door. He slams the door shut and Sam turns back to his luggage and starts up his folding again, shutting his eyes to prevent more tears from falling. He fails, and when the door swings open and his bow legged brother walks in with a generic grocery bag of pie, he's obviously sobbing again.

Dean sets the pie down on the table like it's a kitten and turns to speak, but catches a glimpse of his little brother shaking while hovering over his (their) bed. He instantly catches his voice in his throat, and recalls a memory back from when they were children.

* * *

1989 — Sioux Falls, North Dakota

 _Dean stretched out on the dingy, slightly smelly mattress in the generally foul smelling bedroom he and his brother Sam, who was seven years old at the time, were 'forced' (Dean would've offered to share or at least snuck into Sam's room, anyway) to stay in while John hunted a wendigo on a rampage out in the woods bordering the state. Bobby, their self proclaimed uncle, had been handed the responsibility of two young boys for a month and three weeks, or three months in John-time._

 _His faded leather boots chafed at his ankles as he extended his knees to hit the footboard of the bed, which was obviously meant for a child and not for a growing prepubescent boy. He was just allowing himself to slip into unconscious bliss for the first time in two nights (Sammy had had nightmares then) when he was pulled from a pre-dream state by the crying._

 _He flung himself off the bed in a hurry and nearly fell down the splintery stairs trying to get to his brother as quickly as possible while also trying to load his AMT Automag III. When he finally skidded to a halt on the final stair landing, he saw Sam staring at a glass orb like a lost puppy._

 _He sighed and lowered him gun, placing it on the end table. Bobby, who felt guilty for rejecting Sam's adamant pleas for a puppy a few weeks back, had purchased him a cheap, probably-used-best-as-bait goldfish instead. He fell in love with "Mr. Fizzles"_ **(A/N: yes, I named the fish Mr. Fizzles, and fucking what)** _instantly, giving the yellow-orange fish a personality similar to that of Rufus, Bobby's old friend who lived down the road a mile or two. He talked to it and sang to it, and even introduced Dean to him like a child would an imaginary friend. Hell, he took a shell from an ancient bullet, sterilised it, and used it as a decoration in the cheap, already-cracking bowl._

 _Sam saw Dean out of the corner of his eye and ran into his arms, crying and sniffling. Dean kissed his head and rubbed his back, asking him repeatedly what was wrong. It took him a minute to build up the breath to reply, and he grabbed Dean's calloused hand and dragged him to the fishbowl. That's when he saw the issue._

 _"Dean," he wiped his nose on his too-big flannel, "why isn't Mr. Fizzles swimming anymore?"_

 _Dean inhaled and knelt down to the floor to be at Sam's level (just a bit shorter) and placed a hand on his bony shoulder._

 _"Sammy..." he paused, trying to think of a good example to help explain this to a heartbroken child. The only one he could think of was tragic, but it's the one he used. "Sammy, Mr. Fizzles...he's gone."_

 _"Gone?" Sam cocked his head and pointed up at the bowl. "No, he's there. He just ain't moving."_

 _Dean sighed. This was gonna hurt his heart like a bitch. "No, Sammy, he's gone. Y-you know Mom?"_

 _He nodded. "Yeah. Well, I don't really remember her."_

 _"Well, Mom...she's gone, too. She and Mr. Fizzles are in a different place now. Somewhere we can't see 'em but they can see us." He stuttered and stumbled over his ricocheting emotions as he spoke._

 _"Oh." That was all Sam could say for a moment. "Dean, what's that place like?"_

 _Dean smiled and took his brother's hand, a bandage on his pointer finger; not from hunting, but from a paper cut from his homework. "Let's see...it's white, and has fluffy clouds everywhere, and everyone's so happy. There's no sadness or pain, and there's just...peace. It's called heaven."_

 _"Really?!" He squealed suddenly, Dean being taken aback by this. "De, will we go to heaven, too?"_

 _He chuckled. "Not for a long time, Sammy. Everyone goes to heaven."_

 _"Okay," he smiled a bit. "Do you think Dad'll be happier in heaven? With Mom?"_

 _Dean pulled his brother into a hug and felt his hot breath down his neck. It soothed him, knowing that he raised such a wonderful boy. "I sure hope so, Sammy."_

 _Later that day, the Winchester boys gave Mr. Fizzles a hunter's funeral. They built a pyre from scraps of wood and pop sickle sticks, laid his scaly little body down, and lit the match. Dean didn't want to have to explain what death was to San at such a young age, but it allowed him to be vulnerable. Perhaps that's why they're so close now. Who knew a fish (and a dead one at that) could bring two brothers even closer together?_

* * *

He shakes his head and is brought back to reality. Sam is shaking with sobs and his heart hurts just as much as it did that day at Bobby's, and all he wants to do is hug him, hold him, and kiss him like they usually do. In this situation, however, Dean gets a vibe that he can't fix anything with a hug.

"Sammy?"

At that, Sam sniffles and stops packing. The shit that's two thirds of the way folded drops from his grasp and he shakes his head slightly. It takes him a minute, but he turns around to face his older brother; and when he does, he sees Dean's face drop like a boulder from a seaside cliff.

"What do you want, Dean?"

Shit, that's cold. He wonders why he sounded so cruel but then he remembers his situation. He inhales shakily and picks his head up, dragging his attention from the painfully interesting pattern on the carpet. Dean looks like he's about to break into a million pieces, but little did he know, his little brother is nothing more than a shattered mess glued back together a thousand times over.

He sees the confusion etched into Dean's soft glare and dejectedly stands to the side, revealing his almost fully packed suitcase.

The green eyed boy's breath gets caught in his throat. He doesn't know what to do. Hell, what does someone do in this situation?! Does he try to stop him, force him to unpack the bag? 'Cause he sure as hell ain't about to let him leave. More importantly, what has he missed? How has he overlooked an issue so prominent that he wants to leave?

Before he knows it, he's taking cautious steps toward Sam. When he gets about two feet from him, he looks up into those hazel eyes he knows so well. Unfortunately, they're clouded with doubt, shame, and the burden of uncertainty. He doesn't see his Sammy in those eyes.

"Sammy, what's wrong?" He asks in a whisper, trying not to upset him. Usually when he asks "stupid questions" like that, Sam erupts like Krakatoa and won't let Dean live it down, so that's what he's expecting tonight. To his surprise, that's the opposite of what he does.

Sam's lower lip trembles and he can't take it any longer. He throws himself into Dean's arms and begins crying like there's no tomorrow. Dean's shocked to say the least, but he does exactly what he did when they were kids: he kisses his head, rubs his back, and leads him away from harm. In this case, harm is the suitcase, so he brings him to the other, unused bed.

Dean gently quiets the tall boy down as he holds him, kissing his arm as he clings to him. Sam has always thought it weird that Dean kisses him in places like his arms, and that's exactly why Dean keeps doing it. They might be totally non-familial soulmates, but they're still brothers; and brothers love to annoy the living shit out of each other. This, however...Sam's grown to love this.

"What happened?" Dean finally breathed as Sam began to stop shaking.

He lifts his reddened eyes to meet Dean's and he whispers, not wanting to break the fragile, thin atmosphere. "I fucked up, De."

"What d'you mean you fucked up?" He almost purrs in response. He doesn't mean to, it just happens. "Nothing you do can be a fuck up, babe."

Sam laughs for the first time that day, and Dean can't help but smile. He sees a hint of his Sammy in those clouded eyes now, and all he can do is piece his brother back together. Despite Sam's stature, he's sitting in Dean's lap, arms wrapped around his neck and his legs hung over Dean's like he's being cradled. He's close enough to nuzzle his face into his chest but is being held loosely enough to look at Dean directly in the eyes.

"I have to leave, Dean," his voice wavers again. Dean's heart can almost be seen dropping inside his chest, and that's enough to make Sam want to cry again. "I...I can't do this to you."

"Hey, if you're leavin', I'm comin' with you. We're boyfriend-brothers, man, we're unhealthily codependent." Dean runs his fingers through Sam's hair and kisses his forehead.

Sam smiles into the touch and brings himself to the level of confidence needed to tell Dean the secret that is bound to ruin their lives. "I'll be right back. Gotta get something."

He then hoists himself out of Dean's arms and heads into the bathroom. Unfortunately, this is where Sam spent three hours of his day today. He knows just about every inch of mouldy wallpaper and has seen the six cockroach carcasses through the kaleidoscope of his tears. It all becomes real to him once again when he picks up the damned white sticks—five, to be exact—and reads them over again. Five plus signs, also known as five surefire ways to ruin his future with the love of his life. He feels like a mutant, a freak of nature, once again, and can barely get himself to leave the bathroom to show Dean and have him inevitably walk out of the room and never come back.

He stops about six feet from where Dean's sitting and takes a breath. "Let me just preface this with the fact that I had no goddamn idea this was even possible when I first found out."

"Okay, bailiff," Dean says, getting up to face him. He's always been known to mask his anxiety with humour, and nothing is different now.

Sam holds the tests behind his back for a solid minute before handing them to Dean and storming over to the corner of their bed, the one closest to the wall. He brings his knees close and ticks them under his chin as he awaits the inevitable "what the hell, Sammy!" response. When he feels a warm hand on his shoulder blade, however, he flinches and it takes him a little while to turn around. When he does, he sees a teary eyed Dean, who is still holding the sticks.

"Babe...is this true?" He asks, trying not to upset his brother or give him the wrong message. He nods and looks away in shame and disgust at himself. Dean, however, is still awestruck. "But, what about the, you know, defects...?"

Really? That's all he can manage to say? Truth be told that's the only question he has in his mind right now, as the rest of his brain cells are already plotting something else. Before he can mentally flagellate himself for such a stupid question, Sam speaks up.

"There aren't any. Only female and male siblings' offsprings have those. It's a chromosome thing, I looked it up when I first found out." He murmurs into the stale silence.

Before Sam can say anything else, Dean's already freaking out inside his head. It's like a fucking fiesta up there. He feels Dean's head on his shoulder, and flinches at the sudden tears on his arm, which aren't his. He looks down at Dean, searching his face for any emotional giveaways, but before he can come to a consensus, he's being tackled—carefully—onto the bed by his best friend and boyfriend, who is either giving mixed signals or is actually, genuinely happy.

Dean flips Sam over so he's below his moose-like soulmate, and brings his face down for a deep, passionate kiss. He tucks his Thor hair behind his ears as the fireworks go off behind each man's eyes, and brings his hands around his back to press into his shoulder blades.

Sam is able to catch his breath when Dean is forced to part their lips for the sake of stupid oxygen, and he smiles down at him. The suitcase has fallen to the floor and exploded, but neither of them care. Hell, the purpose of ever having or wanting to leave has left Sam's mind completely: he's overcome by bliss now. Neither of them say anything until he climbs off of Dean and lays beside him on his back, and Dean props himself up on his elbow.

He gives Sam a look, which is obviously asking "may I?", and he nods, allowing his shirt to be lifted up. He inhales sharply as he feels warmth on his bloated-looking stomach and a calloused hand running down the smooth skin. Dean smiles widely and shifts his gaze to Sam as if to ask if he sees the "bump" (it looks more like Sam ate way too many burritos from Don Pedro's), too. They needn't verbally communicate, as their connection is basically telepathic at this point.

"Twelve weeks," Sam says in a whisper. "At least, according to the tests."

"Twelve weeks," Dean echoes, his voice being so utterly sincere and elated that Sam can't even believe this is the same Dean he grew up with. His hand rests in one spot like he thinks he'll be able to feel the heartbeat if he tries and he looks up at Sam, tears running down his cheeks. "I'm so lucky."

* * *

 **A/N: You know what, I fucking tried, okay?**

 **Love you assholes, I guess. Thanks for reading this shit.**


End file.
